


Something Like Desire

by Artemis1000



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Enemies, F/F, Hate Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 12:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20192098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1000/pseuds/Artemis1000
Summary: She kisses Cersei first, lips smashing into hers, teeth seeking to draw blood. The faux mildness is all gone now from her demeanor and Cersei laughs in victory, she thrills in the violence, in the fury, in all that is Daenerys Targaryen and all that is, for this one precious moment in time, owned by Cersei.





	Something Like Desire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ConvenientAlias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/gifts).

> Written to the prompt of the song [Desire by Meg Myers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bR5u9jb0PJE). Thank you for the wonderful soundtrack to inspire me!

She is beautiful, this younger queen that has come to her for parlay. Cersei watches her as they trade barbs wrapped in pleasantries, she devours every line of her perfect sweet face that hides the viciousness of a dragon beneath. Not viciousness to match her own, mind you, but enough to be worth Cersei’s time and attention in a way few others are. True conquerors are so rare these days.

Daenerys looks lovely in the white and blue dress she is wearing, all flowing soft fabrics thin enough to almost but not quite reveal the skin beneath. It gives her the appearance of a far gentler creature than Cersei knows her to be. Her shoulders are bare except for two delicate strips of fabric, the dress dips low to reveal the tantalizing curve of her breasts and flutters around her shapely legs.

Maybe, Cersei thinks, it is the kind of dress Daenerys used to wear before she had taken to the battlefield. Back when she had been the kind of woman she is pretending to be today – if a Targaryen ever could have been anything less than a vicious beast, and not just biding its time.

Her eyes are clever and calculating, unlike the friendly words they are exchanging. Neither of them is very good at keeping up a pretense of friendliness for very long.

She is beautiful and ever so sweet right until she isn’t anymore, until Cersei’s pointed barbs have driven her to show teeth and claws and spit threats that Cersei has no doubt she will make true, if given half a chance. It’s intoxicating, this Targaryen fire. Cersei has never slain a dragon before.

“You can try,” Cersei scoffs as they are face-to-face. She is the one to reach for Daenerys first, her fingers brushing over the elaborate braids piled on top of her head, the gesture a mockery of affection. Her grip turns bruising when her fingers dig like claws into her braids and tear apart the careful arrangement. “I will sooner have you burn King’s Landing to the ground than surrender it to _you_.”

Daenerys snarls. Her hands can be claws, too.

She kisses Cersei first, lips smashing into hers, teeth seeking to draw blood. The faux mildness is all gone now from her demeanor and Cersei laughs in victory, she thrills in the violence, in the fury, in all that is Daenerys Targaryen and all that is, for this one precious moment in time, owned by Cersei.

Daenerys’s hands tear at her elaborate dress made of heavy brocade and velvet in Lannister red and gold. She grips her by the heavy golden necklace she wears, fingers wrapping around the fist-sized ruby penchant and twisting, yanking, as if she is trying to make Cersei choke on all the Lannister wealth she so proudly displays.

The dragon has teeth and claws, she does, but Cersei has played this game more often than she has.

They sink into another, hands yanking and shoving and ripping at fabric far too fine to be treated such. Daenerys’s gossamer dress rips long before Cersei’s does and in this, she delights, too.

Pale skin laid bare for Cersei’s hungry eyes, Daenerys is even more beautiful than she had been before. She is unashamed of her nakedness, defiant even now – determined to rule over Cersei, even now.

Cersei meets her with equal boldness as she slips off the last of her many-layered dress. She is still wearing the necklace Daenerys tried to choke her with and nothing else.

It is her now who pursues, stalking Daenerys like the lion she is. Lips and hands and teeth, leaving bruises on Daenerys’s pale skin while Daenerys’s nails dig in deep enough to leave marks of their own on Cersei.

They are too far gone to bother with pretenses now.

“How do you want me?” Cersei purrs, no, sneers into Daenerys’s ear as her fingers slip down between her legs. Asking, as if Daenerys is still in control, as if she ever has been. But cats do like to toy with mice before they devour them.

Kneeling on a settee more decorative than comfortable, Daenerys keens under her hands and teeth. Her silver hair is in disarray, a veritable bird’s nest for Cersei to grip and yank at whenever she pleases, much as her own is for Daenerys. Her fingers find Daenerys already slick, shuddering under her every firm touch. She doesn’t waste time on teasing, her fingerpads grinding down hard on her clit forcing shudder upon shudder and moan upon moan from Daenerys until her skin is glistening with sweat and her grip on Cersei’s arms has turned from demanding to nothing but holding on.

It won’t last, Cersei knows. Of course, it won’t last. Daenerys is not made for complacency. If she were, Cersei would not bother with her. But she’s not ready to surrender the sweet thrill of having the mother of dragons dance to her tune.

And what a tune it is. How enchanting Daenerys is when Cersei’s head is between her quivering thighs, her hands clenching and unclenching around thin air – for Cersei had roughly slapped them away when she tried to grip her hair, snarling a lion’s roar of warning. She pleads so prettily to be speared on Cersei’s tongue.

Cersei is smirking when she complies. She is not a mindful lover, certainly not a selfless one, but to see Daenerys Targaryen come undone at her whim is pleasure in itself.

“Please,” Daenerys gasps.

Cersei pulls away, a haughty sneer already twisting her lips. “Not so quick,” she says, for she is indeed not a selfless lover and far too wily to risk Daenerys might take her pleasure and leave.

She is skilled, and enchanting, the dragon queen, her every movement pure seduction even when rage is burning in her eyes. Or maybe that is just Cersei, who finds her danger far more appealing than her earlier pretense of gentleness.

Daenerys knows how to kiss and bite and mark her claim. She leaves bite marks on Cersei’s breasts and inner thighs, her nails scrape over her ass and dig in when her tongue flicks over her clit until Cersei is all but fucking herself against it. She fucks her with pointedly rough, demanding fingers and a wickedly soft tongue and Cersei, Cersei takes and takes and demands more from her, determined that she will come out of this having taken more than she gave.

By the time Daenerys comes up for air, her lips and chin are glistening with Cersei’s juices and she is smiling ever so haughtily; infuriating in her triumph.

Cersei kiss-bites the triumph from her lips even as her fingers give Daenerys the relief she had denied her before, and Daenerys, in turn, drives her back to the brink and beyond with a ruthlessness that betrays she thinks herself to be conquering Cersei at this moment.

She takes it anyway, greedily takes everything that Daenerys will give and demands more, takes the pleasure breaking and leaving her moaning – but not Daenerys’s name, never that, she wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

There is silence, afterward, broken only by their heavy breathing.

There will be no cuddling, no tenderness, not even any half-hearted pretense at it. Daenerys Targaryen is not one of these easily led fools at court who are all too eager to convince themselves that Cersei cares for them beyond what little use they have. With her, there is no need to try and pretend.

Cersei withdraws as soon as her body stops shaking from the aftershocks of her orgasm and stands on still unsteady legs, her eyes once more cold and full of disdain as she looks down at Daenerys, looking so artfully undone and just as unashamed as she is.

Daenerys meets her gaze without flinching, just as she had done every other time. She carries herself with the same haughtiness as before. “Are you done now proving your point?” she asks, voice so infuriatingly mild again that everything in Cersei screams and rails against permitting it.

She had wanted to flay her alive. She had thought she could. She isn’t ready to admit defeat, she never will.

But for now, Cersei sniffs and moves to retrieve her gown, as if she has already grown bored of Daenerys. “I will let you know.”

Daenerys doesn’t laugh. Something tells Cersei she isn’t the type to laugh when she faces an enemy. Still, she makes an amused noise at the back of her throat, or maybe just an appreciative one. “I’m so glad we had this chat,” she says as she slips back into her dress, torn as it is. She looks a mess, her hair in disarray, her lips bruised. Marks in the shape of Cersei’s fingers are already forming on her wrists where she had pinned her at some point. “It was very enlightening.”

“It was,” Cersei can agree to that much. Once more dressed, as much as she can anyway with her far more elaborate gown, which requires the help of a maid, Cersei returns to the armchair she had reclined in when this all started and picks up her glass of wine. It is still half full.

She watches Daenerys leave, her gait so self-assured in her presumed victory.

Cersei takes a sip of wine and savors the lingering taste of Daenerys.

Let her believe she has won this battle. It will only make her more careless the next time they duel.


End file.
